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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30104976">another trip around the sun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard'>aalphard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempt at Humor, Birthday, Confessions, Family Feels, M/M, Sakusa Kiyoomi is Bad at Feelings, Sort Of, Weird Fluff, i love this tag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:35:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30104976</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The first thing he notices is that it’s nowhere near as majestic as the ones he’s used to.</p>
  <p>The second thing he notices is that it’s not store-bought.</p>
  <p>The third thing he notices is the faint blush over Atsumu’s cheeks when he looks at him.</p>
  <p>“You said you’d never had a homemade birthday cake before,” he whispers, looking down at his fidgeting fingers before looking back at him with a sweet, coy smile on his face. “I thought I could surprise ya.”</p>
</blockquote>or kiyoomi has never had a homemade birthday cake before. atsumu takes that as a challenge.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>323</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>another trip around the sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansoomz/gifts">hansoomz</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for the amazing <a href="https://twitter.com/hansoomz">jo</a> as the prize for my 1.5k giveaway on twitter! </p>
<p>(and also because of omi's birthday, but who cares about that one, right?)</p>
<p>we had lots of ideas but in the end this one won us over and, honestly, it was amazing to bring this to life &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They weren’t always something bad. Birthdays, that is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi remembers being a happy child, remembers the gifts and the thousands of balloons floating all the way up to his ceiling. He remembers the yummy food and the way his parents made sure to be home before midnight even when they were busy just so they could wish him a happy birthday, just so they could tell him they loved him. His siblings would sing him a birthday song and light up the candles over the fancy, beautifully decorated chocolate cake their parents got from this renowned patisserie. They would feast on the delicious strawberries decorating the top before digging into the cake and making a mess out of their faces, a trace of chocolate left on the sides of their mouths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They would laugh about it afterwards, wiping Kiyoomi’s face with wide smiles as they ruffled his hair. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re so cute,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his sister would say. His brother would flick his forehead and tell him to use a napkin, but Kiyoomi knew all he needed to do was pout and his siblings would melt at his feet. The perks of being the youngest child, he supposed .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere along the line, though, that changed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere along the line, Kiyoomi found himself sitting alone at the table where a cake stood, majestically displayed, the eight, nine, ten candles resting upon  frosting and the chopped chocolate over it. Somewhere along the line, he stopped bothering with the candles, picking them up and throwing them out, still unlit, before getting himself a slice. Sometimes he wouldn’t even eat it, throwing the entire thing into the fridge and wrapping his blankets around his shoulders. His siblings were older, they had to deal with things Kiyoomi couldn’t understand, being the child he was. His parents were too busy with work to be home in time for his birthday, but they still knocked on his door to wish him a happy birthday, even if he pretended to be asleep by the time they arrived.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere along the line, Kiyoomi stopped caring about birthdays in general.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, he had a cousin who wouldn’t let him forget. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a special day, Kiyo,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Motoya would say before handing him a cupcake and a little gift. Usually, he’d get Kiyoomi bookmarks or something volleyball-related. Sometimes, when he got bolder, he’d get Kiyoomi a book. Once, he made him a mixtape. Kiyoomi doesn’t care about birthdays, but Motoya does. He makes sure to call him at midnight to be the first to wish him a happy birthday, and when their schedules allow them to, he drops by to give him a hug and, well, a cupcake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thing is, Kiyoomi doesn’t really care about birthdays, but judging from how excited his teammates are when he walks into the gym, he assumes they do. There’s a calendar on the wall and names scribbled over the pages with doodles of cakes and balloons and even party hats on some of them. He frowns when Atsumu walks over to him with a pen and a bright smile on his face, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Omi, when’s yer birthday,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he asks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>because we’re trying to organize a little somethin’ for everyone on the team when the time comes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s, uh,” he squints, the question </span>
  <em>
    <span>what day is today again?</span>
  </em>
  <span> running through his mind as if he’s a scratched CD, “it’s in two days, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t really keep track.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a collective gasp before all eyes turn towards him, disbelief spreading all over their faces, mouths hanging open as they struggle to find the right words to say. Not that it matters, because it certainly doesn’t, not when Kiyoomi has spent the last ten years without properly celebrating his birthday, not when all that comes to mind  is the cold feeling of his family’s empty dining table and an extravagant cake he didn’t have the stomach for. Birthdays weren’t all that bad, he knows, but something about the thought of having to sit around to celebrate it has always made him feel sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s in two days?!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Meian speaks up, flames burning behind his eyes because </span>
  <em>
    <span>apparently,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Kiyoomi finds out then, you’re supposed to be super excited about managing to survive another year. “Don’t you ever celebrate?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he says, plain and simple, letting his bag hit the floor. He can sense lots of eyes scanning his every move, too shocked to even try to look away. “I haven’t celebrated since I was around eleven or twelve. It’s not a big deal. Can we start warm-ups now? I have somewhere I need to be after practice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pretends he doesn’t hear Hinata’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>is he serious</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Bokuto’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dunno, but it must’ve been bad, yeah?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He pretends he doesn’t hear Meian shushing them both or the way Inunaki and Tomas keep their eyes glued to the calendar where Miya Atsumu, because of course it always has to be him, slowly writes his name. </span>
  <em>
    <span>March 20th</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it reads, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Omi-kun’s day.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He pretends it doesn’t make warmth climb up his spine, pretends it doesn’t flood his veins like the remnants of a home he no longer fit in. He pretends his cheeks aren’t burning when Barnes tries to laugh it off or when the rookies stare at him with something akin to curiosity burning behind their eyes because, surely, not wanting to celebrate your birthday was weird, right? But, most of all, he pretends he doesn’t notice the way Atsumu’s eyes never seem to leave him for the rest of the day, the way he almost looks apologetic when he says his goodbyes, the way his hand lingers for far too long on his shoulder before they part ways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pretends it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t have mattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But if that’s how it’s supposed to go, why is his heart suddenly aching inside his chest?</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, he’s been given the day off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s your birthday,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Meian tells him over the phone, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and Coach Foster thought it would be nice to give you some rest, finally. It’s okay, we can have a rookie play in your position for the day. Miya won’t like it, but the day is yours to spend as you please. Oh, and Sakusa? Happy birthday. I know you don’t really care about celebrations and things like that, but still. Treat yourself with some cake or something. See you tomorrow.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa Kiyoomi is a man of habit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up, rolls around in bed for ten to fifteen minutes, and gets up to start his day. He enjoys having a good breakfast and a hot cup of coffee before hopping in the shower. He styles each curl carefully, eyes locked with his reflection in the mirror, a few droplets sliding down his chest from the spot behind his neck he still hasn’t dried off. He brushes his teeth for the recommended three minutes, one and a half upper teeth, one and a half lower teeth, just because. He picks up his gym bag after he gets dressed, takes one last look around his bedroom to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, and leaves for practice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t do morning runs, they’re too much of a hassle. When asked, he shrugs and tries to smile as he says that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d rather my workout routine stays private</span>
  </em>
  <span> and that seems to shut people up. He doesn’t really allow himself to eat sweets even when he’s known for his sweet tooth and that’s because he knows better than that. He sticks to his routine, he sticks to his diet, he sticks to everything that makes him Sakusa Kiyoomi, opposite hitter for the MSBY Black Jackals, strong candidate for the national team. It doesn’t really bother him, staying at home instead of going to practice, much on the contrary, and still, uneasiness settles at the pit of his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Motoya calls him to apologize for the lack of confetti thrown at his face and the cupcakes he won’t be able to eat today. He tells him he’s out of town for a match, that he’s getting him a souvenir to make up for his absence today. He tells him he’ll call him later, he tells him </span>
  <em>
    <span>still, happy birthday, I love you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Kiyoomi doesn’t say it back, he almost never does, but he hums in acknowledgement and that’s enough for both of them. His siblings text him with cute stickers and pictures of their kids, they send him audios wishing him a good day and telling him they miss him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>when are you free, the kids miss you, we should get together soon, have you seen our parents recently?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Kiyoomi smiles at his phone when high-pitched, infantile voices fill the room with a shout of his name and the promise of </span>
  <em>
    <span>the bestest time, uncle Kiyo, we’ll have so much fun, just you wait!</span>
  </em>
  <span> He texts them back with a short and concise </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> along with a ridiculous amount of heart emojis because he knows the kids enjoy it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father left him a voicemail asking him to visit from time to time, wishing him a happy birthday, telling him they both wish they could be celebrating with him. He tells Kiyoomi about their business and how well it’s going, how they’re thinking about expanding, how they’re so lucky to have made it this far. Then, his father tells him he loves him. It’s not something Kiyoomi’s used to, hearing the words echoing around his apartment in his father’s voice, much less with the hint of a sob constricting his throat. His father was never an emotional man, Kiyoomi remembers, and the sudden confession makes his heart jump inside his chest. His mother’s voice pitches in at the very last minute with a sweet </span>
  <em>
    <span>we miss you, sweetheart, happy birthday, enjoy it to the fullest and don’t forget to come visit when you have the chance so we can celebrate together!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And what now,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he asks himself, head resting over the arm of his couch. He could order some takeout and watch footage of an old game, maybe. Or he could read the book he’d been putting off for weeks now, the five-hundred-something pages book he keeps by his nightstand in a silent promise to read one or two chapters before bed, a promise he didn’t keep. Or, even, maybe he could try to cook something to redeem himself for the last three times his fire alarm went out with thick, dark smoke filling his entire apartment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, though, he knows he’ll probably just go with the first option.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, Kiyoomi isn’t one to be bothered by the prospect of being alone. He enjoys the silence, he enjoys the fact that it helps him think. He enjoys the freedom of being able to do whatever you want without having someone constantly peeking over your shoulder or popping up from behind you. He enjoys being able to be his weird, usual self without having to put up a façade, without having to play the part of the cold, emotionally detached, untouchable volleyball player. He doesn’t mind it, not really, but something churns uncomfortably in his stomach when he finds himself alone in his apartment today, phone glued to his chest as if it could somehow soothe the pain behind his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders what Meian would do if he showed up at practice. He wonders if they’d kick him out or if they’d pity him. But, then again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing feels worse than someone telling you, “You poor thing,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he remembers suddenly, his own words coming back to haunt him. It’s laughable, and he would have laughed had his throat not been blocked by a prickly lump that settled inside. He isn’t one to be bothered by the prospect of being alone, of course, but it doesn’t make it any less lonely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Should we do something special for your birthday?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What if we go out for drinks?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Coach would kill us if he knew.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, in that case we just gotta keep it a secret, then.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>C’mon, Omi-san, it’s supposed to be a fun day!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps he should have let them celebrate his birthday, he thinks, now, as he stares at his ceiling, let them buy him presents and bring  him a chocolate cake from the grocery store just around the corner. Perhaps he should have let them have this small victory, he thinks as he feels his heart clench painfully inside his chest, almost unbearably so, and claw its way up, up, up until it reaches his throat, until it reaches the painful lump he can’t get rid of. Perhaps he should have let them have their way, he thinks, because by sitting all alone in his apartment, Kiyoomi finds out, he allows the loneliness to creep back inside and wrap its long, cold and clawed fingers around his throat and whisper the things he was sure he had sealed away a long, long time ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to pretend it doesn’t make liquid fire flood his veins, he tries to pretend he can still breathe. Kiyoomi knows better than that, of course, but staring at the chipped paint on the corners of his ceiling, he can only think that </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He spins and spins and spins and, eventually, the world falls apart around him.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doorbell rings when he’s already halfway through his book and forcing himself to chug down the lukewarm herbal tea left in the mug he forgot about. It rings once, twice, five hundred times, and as much as Kiyoomi wishes to pretend he didn’t hear it, as much as he wishes to pretend he isn’t home, he still puts his book down and leaves the mug on the coffee table. He stretches his arms over his head for one, two, three seconds and the doorbell rings again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone’s eager today,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks. He pretends he doesn’t notice, but at the back of his mind lingers the thought that </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> someone wished to spend this day with him. Preposterous, he knows, and yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yet,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he can’t help but hope.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It keeps ringing as he walks towards the door, the sound echoing through his apartment walls and inside his ears like a warning sign. He could still turn back, he reasons, plug in his earphones and pretend he hasn’t heard anything. He could pretend he’s not home, he could pretend no one lives there, but he doesn’t. He stands in front of the door and wraps his fingers around the doorknob, heart pounding at the prospect of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> standing on the other side of the door. He knows he shouldn’t hope, but he does anyway. How could he not, when he was the one who looked the most eager for this day, when he was the one who wrote his name, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Omi-kun’s day,</span>
  </em>
  <span> with little hearts and stars surrounding it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swallows the gasp that claws at his throat, he swallows the surprised shriek and forces himself not to show his surprise, squinting instead of widening his eyes, frowning instead of arching his eyebrows when he opens the door. He knows he’s made a mistake when his eyes lock with Miya Atsumu’s, warm and comfortable and everything Kiyoomi wishes he could drown in. He smiles and this fact alone is enough to make Kiyoomi’s heart lose its rhythm, enough for him to actually believe he’s forgotten how to breathe. It’s overwhelming, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> overwhelming. It’s too much, all of it, all of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi hadn’t meant for the words to come out so harsh, so rough. Atsumu doesn’t seem to mind, though, a heartful laugh echoing in the hallway where he stands, hands hidden behind his back and something treacherous burning behind his eyes. Kiyoomi knows better than to play with a predator, he’s lived among them, he’s seen what they can do. And yet, he stands there and allows Atsumu’s laugh to render him unable to move, to run for his life. In the end, Kiyoomi supposes he wouldn’t have tried to even if he could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s yer birthday,” he says it like Kiyoomi doesn’t know, like he hasn’t spent his entire day listening to voicemails of people he hadn’t seen in months, years even. “I didn’t want ya to spend it alone. I know Komori-kun is out of town and I figured I could come ‘round so we could, ya know, celebrate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t really do celebrations,” Kiyoomi reminds him. “I thought I told you already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu dramatically rolls his eyes in a way only he can do, a short giggle bursting out of his throat as he takes a step forward, as he tilts his head to the side and watches Kiyoomi’s every expression. It shouldn’t have made his heart race, Kiyoomi knows that. It shouldn’t have made heat flood his system, Kiyoomi knows that. Yet, somehow, it did. The smirk that hangs from his lips and the challenge behind his eyes is enough for Kiyoomi to take a step to the side and allow him inside. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Come in,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t forget to take off your shoes and drop your stuff before walking in.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He pretends he doesn’t hear Atsumu’s snort as he turns around and tries to keep himself steady on his feet at least until he reaches the couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone is buzzing from where it rests against a fluffy cushion, but Kiyoomi doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t want to listen to any more voicemails wishing him the best of luck, good health, good games and, </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously,</span>
  </em>
  <span> someone to settle down with before it’s too late. He can’t help but cringe at the thought of living the life his family had wished he settled for, the fancy houses and the unnecessarily long family dinners, the money talk and everything Kiyoomi most definitely did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to go back to. He loves his family, really, he does, but that doesn’t mean he’ll endure the torture of having to behave like them for the rest of his life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He listens to the ruffle of Atsumu’s clothes as he kneels down to take off his shoes, presumably. He listens to the soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his bag as it hits the floor and he listens to his groan as he gets up, socked feet rapidly moving towards, not to him, but the dinner table Kiyoomi hadn’t yet set up. It spreads through his veins like wildfire, the confusion and the hopeful spark of something Kiyoomi isn’t ready to unravel, not yet. When he turns around, eyes wide and mouth open in the shape of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck do you think you’re doing,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he sees it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing he notices is that it’s nowhere near as majestic as the ones he’s used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second thing he notices is that it’s not store-bought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The third thing he notices is the faint blush over Atsumu’s cheeks when he looks at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said you’d never had a homemade birthday cake before,” he whispers, looking down at his fidgeting fingers before looking back at him with a sweet, coy smile on his face. “I thought I could surprise ya, s’all. We don’t have to eat it together or anything, I just thought I’d drop this off and then-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Atsumu,” he calls before he can stop himself. Atsumu’s eyes widen and his cheeks seem to be getting redder and redder by the minute. It only worsens when Kiyoomi takes one and then two steps towards him, eyes travelling from the cake to Atsumu and to the cake again in an endless cycle as if he can’t quite believe this is happening, and he can’t, not really, not yet. “Why would you do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs, “I just thought it’d be nice, I dunno. We used to bake our cakes ourselves, Samu and I, that is. Our parents did it, too, before we were born, so I guess it just kind of stuck as a tradition. Ya don’t hafta eat it, I just thought it would be nice to give ya something even if ya don’t really celebrate it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi notices three things about the cake. One, that it’s simple. Frosted in simple white, it almost mocks all of the other ones he’s had, the fancy chocolate and the overly exaggerated designs. Two, that it has strawberries on top, neatly placed over small puffs of cream. They’re dark red, juice staining the top of the cream. Three, that it definitely could fool someone into thinking it was store-bought. It’s a beautiful cake, really, and if Kiyoomi wasn’t well-versed in the knowledge of uselessly majestic food, he supposes would have been fooled as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So I’m gonna go now,” he announces by clapping his hands together, red fading from his cheeks as he takes one step away from the table, eyes glued to Kiyoomi’s, “I hope you enjoy it, Omi. And, ya know, happy birthday and all that shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi snorts, shaking his head and reaching an arm towards Atsumu. “Stay,” he says, “since you’ve made it for me, I don’t see why not stay and share it with me, too. Come on, didn’t you come here to celebrate even after I told you I’m not one for celebrating? The </span>
  <em>
    <span>least</span>
  </em>
  <span> you can do, besides bringing the cake, of course, is staying so we can do </span>
  <em>
    <span>all that shit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu opens his mouth to reply, but Kiyoomi doesn’t let him. Instead, he walks towards the kitchen and listens to Atsumu’s soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he probably wasn’t meant to hear. He grabs his plates and silverware, double-checking to see if he’s got it right. It’s been a while, after all. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t have any candles,</span>
  </em>
  <span> is what he tells Atsumu as he carefully arranges porcelain and silver over his dinner table, as Atsumu stares at him like he’s lost his mind, as he sits down and rests his elbows over the table because </span>
  <em>
    <span>what, aren’t we supposed to, like, sing the songs and then eat the cake?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu is watching him with question marks burning behind his eyes as if he can’t quite believe this is actually happening, as if he hadn’t expected Kiyoomi to even accept the cake, much less invite him to eat it with him. So, yes, there’s a faint pink spreading across his cheeks and up the bridge of his nose, his ears effortlessly mimicking the shade as he looks down at the plates, at the cake, at Kiyoomi. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay,</span>
  </em>
  <span> is what he says before taking a step forward, before grabbing a chair and flopping down as if gravity had been pulling him towards the center of the planet, as if standing up had been the most difficult thing he’s ever done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t sing, Kiyoomi supposes they didn’t have to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t light up any candles, they don’t have any.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They talk instead, the cake sitting between them like the silent promise of a happy ending at the end of a tragic novel. Atsumu tells him about the birthdays at the Miya household and how it always started with a bag of flour and laughter. He tells him about the day Osamu threw an egg at his face and, in retaliation, he dropped an entire cup of milk over his head. He tells him they weren’t allowed to bake for the next two years, but they were kids then. As teenagers, he says, they were much, much worse. He tells him about the time they tried a new recipe on their own and almost burned down the house and how his parents banned both of them from the kitchen for two months. He tells him about his mother’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculously delicious </span>
  </em>
  <span>cheesecake and how his father was always better at making puddings and cookies rather than cakes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi listens to him, head tilted to the side and a lazy smile on his face. He wonders what it would have been like to bake his own birthday cakes, what it would have been like to have flour stuck to his hair and chocolate smudged on his chin. He wonders what it would have been like, to have the time to do that, to have someone to guide him through the process and watch cartoons as they waited for the time to take it off the oven. At some point, he’s sure he wondered what it would have been like, being a Miya, the thought buried down under as fast as it came around. Kiyoomi listens to him and, for a second, he can’t help but wish he was a part of that, somehow, that he got to see the twins bickering while mixing cake batter, while taste-testing something and the consequences that followed of each of them getting a slap to their necks because </span>
  <em>
    <span>no eatin’ it before it’s ready!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu doesn’t ask him about his birthdays, but Kiyoomi tells him anyway, about the fancy cakes and the loneliness that somehow seemed to come with them. At that, he grins big and bright and everything that makes Kiyoomi’s blood suddenly turn into lava, and a soft whisper of </span>
  <em>
    <span>good thing that I’m here now, right?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Before he can help himself, Kiyoomi laughs. It’s loud and hoarse and he can’t help but laugh some more when Atsumu’s eyes widen and his mouth hangs open in shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” Kiyoomi whispers as Atsumu cuts the first slice, a small strawberry rolling away from him, “I never would have imagined you were the kind of person to bake someone a cake for their birthday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts, eyes still glued to the strawberry, “Well, ya said you’d never had one before and I wanted to make it a special day. It’s kinda sad that ya don’t celebrate, ya know? It’s a special day, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just another trip around the sun,” Kiyoomi comments as he steals the strawberry away from Atsumu, wide hazel eyes burning with betrayal as he laughs, “so I don’t see why I should celebrate being born.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Atsumu shrugs, Kiyoomi sees something else reflected inside his eyes. It almost feels like a challenge, the way it sparks and burns for a millisecond before it’s gone. Kiyoomi sees the way Atsumu’s hair falls effortlessly over his forehead, the way he bites his bottom lip in the same way he does when he’s anxious before a game and, suddenly, he realizes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so that’s what this is about.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Kiyoomi watches as he slides the plate towards him, porcelain sliding across the glass as Atsumu looks away from him, cheeks redder than before, eyes darker and foggier than usual, the frown turning his face into a canvas of explosive emotions, and it’s only now that Kiyoomi finds out that </span>
  <em>
    <span>hm, so that’s how it is.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t try to fight it. Instead, under the bright light that shines above his dinner table, he watches Atsumu and every little thing that makes him who he is. He watches him as he takes the first bite of his slice, as he closes his eyes for a second and nods when it suits his taste. He watches him as he licks the frosting stuck to the corners of his lips and as he steals another strawberry from the cake even though he still has two on his plate. Kiyoomi embraces the tingling that climbs up his spine and the warmth that floods his system when Atsumu smiles at him, when he slides him a fork and tells him to eat up or it’ll go bad. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no way it would in such a short time,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wants to say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Atsumu,” he calls, fork already digging into the cake, playing with the frosting and rolling the strawberries around the plate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mm,</span>
  </em>
  <span> comes his reply, a choked out hum as he struggles to force himself to look up at Kiyoomi again. The words are heavy on his tongue, and he lets them roll around with the white frosting and the red-stained vanilla cake before letting out a low, “I like you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chokes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu’s eyes widen and his mouth clamps shut despite the fact that he’s now coughing, face red for more than one reason, Kiyoomi notices. He’s clawing at his pants, his breaths shallow and incapable of providing the oxygen he needs. He looks cute, Kiyoomi notices, furiously blushing while trying to maintain his composure, almost as if he wants Kiyoomi to believe he’s not bothered by his statement, as if Kiyoomi wasn’t the first person to notice the blush creeping up on him, as if he wasn’t the first person to realize what was going on inside their chests. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cute,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not love,” Kiyoomi continues, eyes travelling down and back to the slice of cake resting in front of him, “I don’t love you. Not yet, at least. There’s definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>something,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but I’ll wait until I’m sure to tell you, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Atsumu chokes out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay, yeah, that sounds great. I like you, too. Not love, or maybe it is. I’m not sure. We’ll figure it out, yeah? Not love, not yet. There’s something here as well, is what I’m trying to say.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is, Kiyoomi knows that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If there wasn’t, he doubts Atsumu would have baked him a birthday cake. If there wasn’t, he doubts Atsumu would blush the way he’s blushing now. If there wasn’t, he doubts Atsumu would look at him the way he’s doing now, shy and uncertain but with a hint of an Atsumu-classic smugness behind his eyes, almost as if he’s claiming victory over him when, technically, it’s Kiyoomi’s win. He won’t say anything about that, though. He’ll allow Atsumu to believe he won, because in the end, somehow, he might have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he whispers, eyes locked with warm hazel, a smile tugging at his lips, “for being here. For making it a good birthday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu only smiles before whispering that, “Thank you for being born.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, in the end, Kiyoomi finds out, maybe birthdays aren’t so bad after all.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>happy birthday, omi!!!</p>
<p>you can come yell at/with me on <a href="https://https://twitter.com/aaIphard">twitter</a> (´꒳`)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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